ENJOY YOURSELVES!

These tender morsels could drive a group of

young blacks into a killing and feeding

frenzy!!!

 

     One cold night, I had a dream concerning my meats that would make mouths water!

     In this dream, I was dressed all in black...black long-sleeved turtle-neck shirt, black three-inch coaching shorts, black woolen socks and black sneakers. I drove the 24 miles from my house in Malibu to a destined meeting with a group of 100 young black men, ranging in age from 15 to 30. All but one thing on their minds...to taste the meat of a white man who intensely loved to show off his meats in all kinds of weather.

     When I arrived at Griffith Park, I met the leader of the group...an old college friend named Cliff Manners, who once tasted my meats in the locker room of our old alma mater, the University of Central Florida. On that day, he strung me up facing the gymnasium wall with my feet three feet off the floor and my hands anchored with ropes, making me look like a crucified piece of white meat. He and several blacks who attended our gym class were invited to lick my kneebacks and dig their teeth into my thick, muscular thighs and calves. But that group consisted of Cliff and seven other young black students. Tonight, my meats were going to be caressed, licked, bitten, pinned and, possibly, burned by Cliff leading 100 other black men.

 

THE BODY

The view which greeted the homicide detectives.

I

     The body, perfectly proportioned, lay prone before the fireplace, arms akimbo with bruised wrists, palms up, dressed in white shorts, white knee socks and white golf shoes. The shirt was what appeared to have been a beige sport shirt, the top half severely burned, as was the blistered, broad-shouldered flesh beneath it. What was left of the head was practically a skull...laying charred, mouth agape, upon the smoldering ashes in the fireplace. A poker was stuck full in the center of the back between the shoulder blades. A sickening smell, akin to roasting meat, hung in the air.

     The chief of the homicide detectives, Robert Wilkes, was kneeling beside the corpse. He glanced at the area from which the poker protruded, shook his head and stood up. His assistant, Lieutenant Ken Lawrence, stood beside him.

     "The poker was undoubtedly the murder weapon", Lawrence said. "It appears to have been shoved into the back and through the heart".

     "That's what the killer would have us assume, Lieutenant", the chief replied. "But if you'll look closely, you'll notice that there's no blood on the shirt in the area where the victim was stabbed. This man was dead long before the killer even used the poker". Chief Wilkes knelt down once again beside the body, examining the charred skull more closely. "No, Lawrence, this man was murdered...but whoever his killer was forced his head into the fire first".

     To prove his point, Chief Wilkes stood up once again, grabbing the poker in his gloved hand and extracting it from the dead man's back. He held it up for Lawrence to see. Sure enough, not one bit of blood stained the iron poker. Nor did any blood exit the wound.

     "I guarantee you", Wilkes continued, "that once the coroner performs an autopsy on the lung tissue, he'll find that the insides of both lungs are burned". Wilkes placed the poker within a long plastic evidence bag. "This man was burned to death...forced to breathe in the fire until it killed him. Then, the killer took the poker and rammed it into his back and through the heart, hoping to make us think that it was the poker that killed him. But, he's not as smart as he thought he was".

     Chief Wilkes walked around the untouched living room, his eyes coming to rest on a framed photograph of a handsome young man in hiking shorts and a similarly-dressed beauty.

Chief Wilkes noticed this picture on a table in the living room.

     "Who's this?" he asked the lieutenant.

     "That is...was...Bill Forrester", came the answer from behind him. "He was my fiance".

     Chief Wilkes turned around. There stood the same beautiful woman from the photograph.

     "And you are...?" he asked.

     "Robin Maxwell", she replied. "Bill and I are...were both models from the same agency". She looked beyond the chief and lieutenant to see the corpse of her fiance being lifted and gently laid face down onto the low gurney. The coroner held the charred head in his hands, raising it in cadence with the body so as not to separate them. When the young woman saw the true condition of her lover's body, she gasped. "Oh, my God!"

     Chief Wilkes embraced the young woman as the morgue attendants strapped the prone body down and draped it, lifted the gurney and moved it quickly towards the door to the coroner's wagon which waited outside.

     "Ms. Maxwell, do you feel up to coming down to my office?" Wilkes asked the distraught young woman. "There are quite a few questions I would like to ask you about the deceased".

     The young woman nodded. Wilkes, his arm still about the woman's shoulder, led her to the open door. Before leaving, he turned to Lawrence to issue one final order.

     "Turn out the lights. Lock and cordon off all doors and windows, as well as the boundary of the property", Wilkes ordered. "This is an active crime scene. I want to make certain that nothing is disturbed until this murder is solved".

     "Yes, sir", Lawrence answered, gingerly saluting the Chief as he led the young woman outside.

The coroner prepared the body for the autopsy.

II

     It was almost an hour later before the coroner arrived at his "operating" room on the subterranean level of the local hospital. As the morgue attendants rolled the gurney out from the elevator, the coroner, Dr. Philip Jax, switched on the light, illuminating the cave and the hall at the end of which his office and "operating" room were located. The smell of formaldehyde lingered in the cool, damp air...as it always did after the coroner performed an autopsy. As they crossed over the threshold of the room in which the body would be sliced up, the lights came on.

     "Thank you, gentlemen", Dr. Jax replied, after the attendants lifted the body off the gurney, putting it on the cold metal slab. "That'll be all for tonight. I'll see you tomorrow morning".

     The men nodded, turned and walked out of the room, almost bowling over Dr. Jax's assistant, Jolene FitzSimmons, a beautiful young woman of 27.

     "Well, it's about time you got here, Jolene", Jax said. "When I called you from the crime scene, I had hoped you would have been here and gotten at least half the preparations done".

     "Sorry", she replied. "I had to wait for my husband to fall asleep".

     "He still doesn't approve of you working here?"

     "He was hoping that he could brag to his colleagues about being married to a surgeon...not a medical examiner's assistant".

     "First things first, Jolene. You must work your way up from here".

     Jax stood over the draped corpse, which the attendants placed upon the metal table. When he whipped away the cloth, Jolene practically retched at the sight.

     "Oh, come on, Jolene", he said. "You've seen worse".

     "I thought I had", she remarked, getting her composure back.

     Jax turned on his recorder and brought the microphone closer so he could dictate each step of the procedure.

     "The body is that of a male murder victim...name: William Forrester; occupation: male model; height: six feet, two inches; age: between 25 and 30 years old", he began. "At first glance, it is easy to see that the victim's head had been burned down to the bone. Body was physically fit, tanned and well-toned. Victim was found lying face down in his living room, his head and upper quarter of torso in the fireplace. Body was dressed as it arrived here for the autopsy...half-burned beige sport shirt, white golf shorts, knee socks and golf shoes". He took in a deep breath. "Alright, Jolene...let's get to work stripping him down and cutting him open".

     The coroner and his assistant cut through the dead man's clothing, pulling away piece after piece, until the body lay naked on the cold metal slab.

     "The hole in the direct center of the victim's back was the result of a thrust from an iron fireplace poker", Jax continued. "Wound was post-mortem and therefore not the primary cause of death". Jax grabbed the cold, dead shoulders, looking up at Jolene. "Take hold of the legs and help me turn him over".

     Closing her eyes and grabbing the dead man's legs, Jolene helped Jax turn the body over onto its back, dropping it gently back onto the slab.

     "Similar hole also caused by iron fireplace poker between left and right breast, slightly off-center", Jax reported. "Undoubtedly, the post-mortem exit wound".

     As Jolene placed a towel over the "privates", Jax picked up his scalpel and proceeded to cut the body open...shoulder to shoulder, left hip to right hip, and down the center from the neck to the navel...cutting aside tendons and ligaments to expose the viscera inside. As soon as he had finished, Jax picked up his bone saw and proceeded to cut the dead man's sternum in half. Putting the saw down on the table, he reached into the chest cavity and, deftly, cracked open the rib cage, exposing the internal organs of the thorax.

     Picking up his scalpel once again, Jax proceeded with the gruesome task of removing several organs for examining and weighing. First to be removed was the dead man's heart. Jax placed the organ on the scale and balanced the weights until the scale was even.

     "Heart is smooth", Jax said, "with no obvious defect, save for two holes caused by the entrance and exit of the poker. Weight: twenty-six grams".

     "Are you going to remove the lungs?" Jolene asked.

     "Just the outer part of one. Chief Wilkes has reason to believe that the inside was burned. If it was, then his assumption about the victim's head being pushed into the fire was correct. Did you get all that down about the heart?"

     "Heart smooth, no defects...two holes caused by poker...weight: twenty-six grams", she read from her notepad.

     "Good girl".

     Jax then reached inside the chest with his scalpel again, cutting around the perimeter of the lobe of the left lung. This done, he took a foot-long strand of razor-sharp filament and, placing it at the cut he just made in the lobe, moved it back and forth, sawing through the inner tissue until he met the cut at the opposite side. Putting the filament aside, Jax deftly lifted the outer lobe of the lung, exposing blackened and burned bronchial tubes and air sacs.

     "Jolene, come over here and tell me what you see", Jax said.

     Jolene came over to stand beside her superior and looked into the chest.

     "Well, it looks like you can report to Chief Wilkes and tell him he was right", she said.

     Then, something else caught the coroner's eye. He moved along the table towards the dead man's legs, bending over to get a better look at the left knee.

     "Give me a tweezer", he replied.

     Jolene handed Jax a tweezer. He poked at the dead man's knee, extracting a thin fiber.

     "Do you know what this is?" he asked, holding the fiber up to the light for the young woman to see.

     Jolene nodded as Jax quickly bagged the fiber and, turning, hurried towards the door.

Wilkes started questioning Robin about her fiance.

III

     Chief Wilkes sat at his desk at headquarters. Robin Maxwell, the fiancee of the deceased man, sat across from him. Wilkes held out a box of tissues to the distraught young woman. A young man was dead, his head forced into a blazing hearth, his body left prone before it...and an iron poker stabbed into his back. Wilkes wanted to get to the bottom of this...and he wanted to do it quickly.

     "Now, Ms. Maxwell, how long were you and the deceased engaged?" he asked.

     "We were supposed to get married next month", the woman said.

     "I didn't ask you that, Ms. Maxwell. I asked how long you were engaged. A year? Two years? Five? Ten?"

     "Two years...almost three". She took another tissue and wiped her eyes. "The modeling agency was going to arrange everything. The flowers...the honeymoon...everything".

     Wilkes rose from his chair, walked to the window and looked out.

     "Do you know if Mr. Forrester had any enemies at the agency who probably wanted him dead?"

     "Enemies? My Bill?" Ms. Maxwell asked, horrified. "Chief Wilkes, Bill was the most-liked man in the entire agency! Photographers gathered at his feet, begging him to pose for them. Begging him...not the other way around! How could you ever ask such a question?"

     "I didn't mean any insult, Ms. Maxwell". Wilkes returned to his chair and sat down again. "Still, Mr. Forrester made somebody mad...somebody who hated him enough to force his head into a fireplace blaze, and then tried to cover it up by shoving an iron poker into his back".

     Wilkes paused as he took out a cigarette from the pack of Winston on his desk, put it between his lips and lit it. After taking a deep drag, he looked at the distraught woman once more.

     "Now, it didn't have to be anybody at the agency", he continued. "Do you know of anybody outside the agency that may have held a grudge against him?"

     "No", she replied. "Nobody".

     Just then, there was a knock at the door.

     "Come in!" Wilkes called out.

     Jax opened the door and entered the office.

     "What did you find, Phil?" Wilkes asked.

     "Just what you surmised", Jax replied. "Forrester was forced into that fire".

     "Are you absolutely sure?"

     "I found this embedded in the skin of the front of his left knee". Jax tossed the small bag to Wilkes. "It's a carpet fiber...from the same carpet in Forrester's living room. And, there's another thing..."

     "Yes?"

     "Those bruises that were on Forrester's wrists? There were also bruises on his back...as if somebody was straddled on him as he was on his knees, forcing his head into the flames".

     Meanwhile, the young woman's face brightened.

     "Good work, Phil. Thanks".

     "If you need me, I'll be back in the examining room", Jax said, turning and walking towards the door. In a moment, he was gone.

     Wilkes turned and looked at the young woman.

     "Is there something wrong, Ms. Maxwell?" he asked.

     "I just remembered something", she said. "About a week and a half ago...Bill had an argument with a repairman".

     "A repairman?"

     "Bill's BMW was giving him some problems, so he brought it into this repair shop. The shop owner quoted a price of $1,000 plus labor. Bill told him to go ahead with it...and rented a car for three days. When he went back to get his car, the shop owner showed him a bill for $10,000. Bill couldn't believe his eyes. He started shouting at the man and said he wouldn't pay anything more than what was quoted. When the man refused to give him his car keys, Bill stormed out of the shop. Later that night, he returned with his spare key, climbed the fence and took the car. But, he put an envelope through the mail slot".

     "What was in the envelope?"

     "$2,500. Apparently, Bill didn't want any more trouble. He felt the shop owner would be satisfied with the additional money".

     "Well, it looks like he wasn't". Wilkes grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper. "Do you remember the name of the shop?"

     "Barton's Garage...on Olive...in Burbank".

     Wilkes rose from his chair.

     "Lawrence!"

     Almost on cue, Lieutenant Lawrence opened the door.

     "Yes, sir?" Lawrence asked.

     "Get the address of Barton's Garage on Olive in Burbank".

     "Yes, sir".

     "I believe we may have just found the proper motive for murder".

Barton was hard at work in his shop in the morning.

IV

     Chief Wilkes and Lieutenant Lawrence visited the repair shop first thing the following morning. From what Robin Maxwell told him, the shop owner appeared to have reasonable cause for killing Bill Forrester.

     "I'm looking for Mr. Barton", he said to the first mechanic he came across.

     "He's in his office, paying some bill", replied the soft, feminine voice. "And, he usually doesn't like to be disturbed. But, maybe I can help you. I'm Maggie Barton...his daughter".

     "Maybe you can help me, Ms. Barton. I'm Detective Chief Robert Wilkes...and this is Lieutenant Ken Lawrence. We're investigating the death of one of your shop's customers...William Forrester".

     "He's dead?"

     "Murdered...last night".

     "Well, I hate to speak ill of the dead...but good riddance to bad rubbish!"

     "I take it you had something against him?"

     "I sure did! He conned my father out of $7,500!"

     "From what we heard, Ms. Barton, is that your father overcharged Mr. Forrester by $9,000", Lawrence remarked.

     "My father did nothing of the kind, Lieutenant! He gave Mr. Forrester a flat rate of $1,000 for a problem he had with his BMW. However, my father found other related problems that needed to be repaired before he could get to the initial problem. If he just repaired the one problem without repairing the others...well, it would have been work done for nothing. So, my father went ahead with the other repairs. That, plus the labor that was put into the work, is what really cost $10,000".

     "Couldn't your father get in touch with Mr. Forrester to tell him about the other problems beforehand?" Wilkes asked.

     "Believe me...he tried. We both did! But, from sunrise to well past midnight that line was constantly busy. We tried for three whole days and nights...to no avail". Maggie walked over to the sink and proceeded to wash her hands. "Then, he came here on the day my father promised him the car would be ready...and he practically raised the roof when he was told of the price increase. My father and I told him that we tried to contact him...but couldn't get through".

     "Your father refused to give him the key?"

     "You're damn right he did! My father wasn't about to give over a car that had $10,000 worth of work put into it for $1,000". Maggie wiped her hands on her towel, then turned to face Wilkes. "The next day...we found the gate busted open, the BMW gone and a sealed envelope with $2,500 on the floor inside the door just below the mail slot".

     "Tell me something, Ms. Barton...would your father kill for money?"

     "Look, Chief...my father didn't like the way Forrester conned him. But, that doesn't mean he would kill to get his money".

     Just then, the shop owner came out of his office and approached his daughter and the two detectives.

     "What's going on here?" he asked.

     "Mr. Barton?" Wilkes asked.

     "Yeah, I'm Sam Barton. Who wants to know?"

     "I'm Detective Chief Robert Wilkes...homicide division. We're investigating the death of one of your customers".

     "Oh? Which one?"

     "William Forrester. I understand the two of you had a falling-out last week".

     "That's right. That young snot conned me out of $7,500 worth of repair work, busted my gate and stole his car from my yard". Barton looked at Wilkes, then Lawrence...then Wilkes once again. "When did he die?"

     "Last night. He was found face down before his living room fireplace, with his head charred and a poker in his back".

     Barton smirked.

     "Well, I can't say he didn't have it coming...because he did!"

     Wilkes looked at Lawrence for a moment. Did he sense something more than hostility?

     "Mr. Barton, where were you last night at about 7:30?" Wilkes asked.

     "That's easy", Barton answered. "I was at home, having dinner".

     "Can you verify that?"

     "I can", Maggie said. "I was having dinner with him at the time".

     "Anybody else see you?"

     "Look, Chief...if my daughter's word isn't good enough for you, then I don't know what is. But, yes...a neighbor saw me get home at 7:15". Barton looked at his daughter, then at the two men once again. "Look, if you're accusing me of murdering the bastard, then you're barking up the wrong tree! I would never kill somebody who owed me money. I'm not some racketeering loan shark. Now, if you men don't mind...we've got a business to run".

     "Alright, Mr. Barton", Wilkes said. "But, don't leave town. And make yourself available in case I need to talk to you again".

     Without another word, Wilkes and Lawrence turned and left the shop, heading for their car at the curb. Did Robin Maxwell give them a red herring? If Barton had nothing to do with the murder of William Forrester...then who did?

     "Well, Chief...where's our next stop?" Lawrence asked.

     "The modeling agency", Wilkes replied. "I want to see for myself whether or not Forrester had any in-shop enemies".

     Wilkes and Lawrence climbed into the car and drove away.

One of the male models from the agency where the deceased worked

V

     Chief Wilkes and Lieutenant Lawrence made the ten mile trip from Barton's Garage in Burbank to the Elite Models agency in record time. As they left the car, the building security guard walked over to them.

     "I'm sorry, gentlemen. That's a 'no parking' area", he said.

     "I'm Chief Robert Wilkes, Homicide Division", Wilkes said, holding up his I.D. "We're investigating the murder of one of the agency's models. I believe my being able to park there would be what you call 'carte blanche'".

     That said, Wilkes and Lawrence entered the building. The two men approached the only door inside the lobby and, opening it, went inside. Lawrence's eyes practically popped out from his head. There, standing before the two officers, were about twenty beautiful young women...and fourteen extremely handsome young men.

     "Put your eyes back inside your head, Lawrence", Wilkes remarked.

     "Yes, sir".

     The two men approached the receptionist's desk. There, seated behind the desk, was an equally lovely young woman. Definitely model material herself. She looked up from her typewriter.

     "May I help you, gentlemen?" she asked.

     "Yes", Wilkes answered. "I'm Chief Robert Wilkes..."

     "You must be here about Billy", came a voice from the couch where the twenty young women sat. Wilkes turned, looking for the source of the voice. One of the women raised her hand. "Over here".

     "Are you one of the models here?"

     "I'm the owner of the agency, Chief Wilkes", she answered. "Daniela Rubosi, at your service".

     "Is there someplace private where we can speak, Ms. Rubosi?"

     "Certainly", Ms. Rubosi replied, standing up from the couch. "We can go in my office. If you'll follow me".

     Ms. Rubosi walked towards her office door and went inside. Wilkes glanced at Lawrence over his shoulder.

     "Lawrence, you can wait out here", he said.

     "Yes, sir!" Lawrence replied, a smile forming on his face.

     Wilkes went into Ms. Rubosi's office, closing the door behind him. He walked over to the desk and sat down opposite the agency owner, who had lit a cigarette and was taking a long drag.

     "Ms. Rubosi, I'm just going to ask you one question: Did William Forrester have any enemies in the agency that you know of? Especially anybody who would have wanted nothing better than to see him dead?"

     "In the agency, among the models, among the photographers", Ms. Rubosi replied. "Oh, sure...Billy had his share of enemies...including some who would gladly have killed him".

     "Then, why would Ms. Maxwell tell me that Mr. Forrester didn't have any enemies?"

     "There's something you have to understand about Robin Maxwell, Chief Wilkes. Have you ever heard of the old saying "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"?"

     "Yes".

     "Well, there you are. Robin Maxwell was a woman scorned...scorned by the very man she loved".

     "Ms. Rubosi, Ms. Maxwell said that she and the deceased were supposed to be married next month".

     "And, they would have been...if Billy hadn't called the whole thing off".

     "Come again?"

     "Billy felt as if he was being smothered. Robin was hanging all over him...staying at his house from time to time, being with him 24/7. He had no privacy. She was always checking his mail for him, answering his phone...hanging up on people that he probably wanted to speak to. Did you know that he had a twin sister?"

     "No, I didn't".

     "Billy and his sister were the first twin models this agency had...until Robin came along. She almost broke them up. Instead, he came right out and told her that they were finished...that they were never going to be married. Why, I was almost relieved when he came in earlier this week to tell me that".

     "Was he working yesterday morning?"

     "He certainly was. Giorgio...the head photographer...asked him to come dressed in some sport clothes. He wanted to shoot some pictures on location at the golf course. Then, of course, there were moments when Billy started acting haughty-taughty...making faces at the camera...flirting with any rich girl at the club. I mean, whenever Giorgio wanted to get some serious pictures taken, Billy was always screwing around!"

     "He wasn't wearing a beige sport shirt, white shorts, knee socks and golf shoes by any chance...was he?"

     "Yes, he was". Ms. Rubosi had a puzzled look on her face. "How did you know that?"

     "That's the same clothing he was wearing when he was murdered at his house. Tell me...did he come back with...?"

     "Giorgio? No, he didn't". Ms. Rubosi smushed out the cigarette in the marble ashtray on her desk. "It was about 6:30, 6:45 when Giorgio got back here to the agency to develop his film. Let me tell you...he was royally pissed! He kept yelling the same thing, over and over again".

     "What did he say?"

     "Something like 'One of dese days, Ima gonna kill dat mamafangula!'"

     Wilkes looked Ms. Rubosi squarely in the eye.

     "Then, Robin Maxwell wasn't the only person who was scorned".

     "There's quite a big difference between a scorned woman and a pissed-off photographer, Chief Wilkes".

     "But, either one could still be angry enough to push a man's head into a fire". He rose to his feet, turned and started for the door. "Are Ms. Maxwell and Giorgio on the premises?"

     "Of course. They're in the studio".

     "Thank you". Then, remembering that he was but a visitor and had no idea where the studio was, he turned to Ms. Rubosi. "After you?"

     Ms. Rubosi rose from her desk and went through the door, with Wilkes in tow.

The studio where Giorgio took pictures of the agency's models.

VI

     Giorgio D'Allesandro was in the studio, snapping away at models that were dressed in swimsuits...Robin Maxwell among them...when Wilkes and Ms. Rubosi entered.

     "Perfecto!" he exclaimed, snapping photo after photo. "Bella! Molto bella!"

     "Giorgio!" Ms. Rubosi shouted, trying to be heard over the ear-splitting music.

     "Not now! Go 'way!"

     "I'm sorry, darling", she continued, apologizing at having to disturb him. "But, this is very important".

     Flustered, Giorgio lowered his camera and looked at the ceiling. Then, he turned his attention to the scantily-clad models.

     "Take five, signorinas", he said.

     As he turned, smiling, Wilkes could immediately see that Giorgio was entirely Mediterranean...tanned and handsome, with dark, wavy hair and green eyes. Definitely model material himself. He approached Ms. Rubosi and started to kiss her on the cheek.

     "Darling, this is Chief Wilkes of the Police Department", Ms. Rubosi said.

     Giorgio looked up at Wilkes.

     "I hope this has nothing to do with my not paying my last traffic ticket", he quipped.

     "Hardly", Wilkes said. "I'm with the Homicide Division. I'm investigating the murder of Bill Forrester".

     "He's dead?" Giorgio snapped his fingers. "Fangulame...somebody beat me to it!"

     "You want to run that by me again?"

     "Giorgio was just kidding, Chief Wilkes!" Ms. Rubosi exclaimed. "He really meant nothing by it".

     "The hell I didn't!" Giorgio shouted, turning to look at her. "I wish I had been the one to snuff his light out!"

     "Did you?" Wilkes asked.

     "I wish I was...but no", Giorgio said, turning back to Wilkes. "But, I'd like to congratulate the person who did". He walked over to his station behind the curtain, pointing out rolls of film and vats of chemicals. "You see all this? This costs money...and when some asshole starts screwing around instead of doing what I tell him to do, that is money wasted. My money! That bastardo got paid whether he worked or not!" He pulled the curtain aside, cutting off the station from view. "To tell the truth, signore...I'm glad he's dead. If you ever find the one who did it...you should pin a medal on him and not put him away behind bars!"

     "Him...or her, Mr. D'Allesandro". Wilkes looked up to see Robin Maxwell returning to the faux beach. "Ms. Maxwell!"

     Robin turned to face Wilkes, who was approaching her.

     "Why did you lie to me last night?" he asked.

     "I didn't lie to you", she answered.

     "You lied when you said that you and the deceased were going to be married next month. But, you neglected to tell me that Mr. Forrester broke off the engagement after some confrontation you had with his sister. Why?"

     Robin's face blanched.

     "She never liked me", she replied. "She kept telling Bill lies about me".

     "Are you sure it wasn't the other way around? I've heard that you kept hanging around his home, opening his mail, answering his phone calls. I would call that invasion of privacy, Ms. Maxwell. Just opening his mail alone is a misdemeanor. Did you know that?"

     The air was so thick, one would have been able to cut it with a knife. Everybody was looking at Robin Maxwell. Did she have just cause to kill the man she claimed to have loved?

     "Did you?" Wilkes repeated.

     Robin lowered her eyes to the floor. Soon, her body was wracked with sobs.

     "I loved him, Chief Wilkes", she replied. "All I ever wanted was to be loved".

     "And, he did love you", Ms. Rubosi said. "So, why did you kill him?"

     Robin looked up at Ms. Rubosi, a look of bewilderment on her face.

     "Me?" she asked. "What ever gave you that idea?"

     Now, Wilkes was at a loss for words. If neither Robin or Giorgio killed Bill Forrester...who did?

Wilkes and Lawrence returned, perplexed, to the police station.

VII

     Chief Wilkes and Lieutenant Lawrence went back to the station. They now had a new puzzle to solve.

     "Giorgio D'Allesandro claims that he would have wanted to kill Bill Forrester", Wilkes said. "But, he has a witness as to his whereabouts at the time of the murder...Daniela Rubosi. Ms. Rubosi feels that Robin Maxwell, with whom Forrester broke off their engagement, would have wanted to kill him. Two palpable suspects...two people who had good reason to kill the same man...and yet, neither of them did it".

     "So, where does that leave us?" asked Lawrence, fumbling with a slip of paper in his hand.

     "Where do you think? Back at the beginning...with a dead man in the morgue and no killer behind bars!" Wilkes looked up to see Lawrence glancing at the paper in his hand. "What do you have there?"

     "Oh, just an address and telephone number". Wilkes's eyebrow arched as Lawrence continued, "I made a date with one of the models in the outer office".

     Wilkes sat at his desk, flabbergasted.

     "Here we are, in the middle of a murder investigation...and you made a date with one of the models at the agency?" Wilkes asked.

     "Well, what else could I do, Chief?" Lawrence retorted. "You told me to wait in the outer office!"

     "Oh, forget it!"

     Wilkes pushed himself away from his desk, stood up, turned and approached the window. He looked down at the street below. He stood there, astonished. The answer was right there in front of his eyes.

Wilkes looked out the window to see two young gay men in love.

     "Lawrence, come over here!" he shouted.

     "What is it, Chief?" Lawrence asked, rushing over to Wilkes.

     "Look down there...and tell me what you see!"

     Lawrence looked down at what Wilkes was staring at. There, walking hand in hand, were two handsome young men...obviously lovers.

     "It looks like a couple of fags", Lawrence replied.

     "How could I be so stupid?" Wilkes asked, obviously angry with himself. He turned and looked at Lawrence. "Giorgio D'Allesandro, an angry photographer, could have done it...but didn't. And Robin Maxwell, a scorned lover, could have done it, too. But she's too petite to overcome a man who stood six feet two inches tall...and obviously outmuscled her by fifty, sixty pounds! So, where would that lead us?"

     "Back to the agency?" 

     "Of course, it would lead us back to the agency. But, to whom,?"

     "If the photographer didn't do it...and the fiancee didn't do it...then that means..."

     The bulb of reality finally began to glow above Lawrence's head.

     "There had to have been another person who could have killed him", Wilkes said. "A person who loved him enough to make certain that if he couldn't have him, no one could".

     "Aw, come on, Chief!" Lawrence exclaimed. "Are you going to stand there and tell me that Forrester was a fag?"

     "Why not?" The pair was silent for a moment. "What's the matter, Lawrence? Fags kill their lovers, too...just like anybody else".

     "But...!"

     "All the facts point to that conclusion".

     Wilkes rushed for the door, picking up his keys along the way.

     "Come on", he said. "We're heading back to the agency!"

With the new evidence, it was back to the agency.


VIII

     Wilkes and Lawrence broke all existing speed records just to make it back to the modeling agency.

     "Chief, you don't mean to tell me that Forrester was a fag!" Lawrence exclaimed.

     "Maybe not him", Wilkes replied. "But, what if one of the other male models at the agency was?"

     Wilkes brought his car to a stop at the curb in front of the modeling agency. Not wanting a second go-round with the Chief of the Homicide Division, the agency's security guard allowed the men to enter the building. Without so much as a knock, Wilkes entered the agency. There was Daniela Rubosi, scanning through some proofs with Giorgio.

     "We need to talk in private", he said.

     Ms. Rubosi handed the proofs back to Giorgio.

     "Take some more, dear", she said. "I've seen all these poses before".


     

     

THE TONGUES OF THE BLACK TEEN MALE LEGION

Just the thought of some of these guys tasting my legs makes my mouth water!



     One night, I had a dream so strange that, when I awoke the following morning, I just couldn't help but call my father in South Florida and relate it to him...as well as some of my friends from college and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.

     In the dream, one of the young black men (which was a young man I knew from college) had initiated a large group of black teenage boys between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, telling them of a night of "honky leg licking". Little did I realize that the "honky" whose legs he was inviting them to lick was me!

     It occurred one late spring morning during spring break when I was attending the University of Central Florida. The young black man I knew from college...whose name was Cliff...saw me one time when I was walking with some of my friends down Colonial Drive in Orlando. I was dressed in my trademarked brown short-sleeved shirt, mid-thigh denim shorts and, not white knee socks, but white below-the-calf socks. Immediately, Cliff's eyes went to the back of my legs, my kneebacks in particular. I couldn't see it...but something in my mind told me that Cliff was eying my legs and licking his lips. He went back to the campus and contacted all of his friends of color, telling them to get male teenage family members together for some "lip-smackin', honky leg-lickin' fun".

     One day, when I was walking down Colonial Drive by myself...I had the day free and Jen (who was my roommate at the time) was out of town for the weekend...Cliff saw me wearing my trademarked outfit. He began following me and, as soon as we turned down the alleyway which was a shortcut to the apartment building where I lived, Cliff hit me on the back of my head with what I assumed was a lead blackjack. I fell face down on the ground, unconscious...or barely, because in the darkness I was able to hear a multitude of voices. From the way they said their "I"s, I was able to tell that these voices belonged to other young black men.

     When I regained consciousness, I found myself sitting on a stool. My hands were securely tied behind my back. A noose was placed snugly about my neck. At the other end of the rope was Cliff. I looked all around him to see at least fifteen black teenage boys, staring at me with wide eyes and licking their thick lips. With every muscle in his brawny arms tensing, Cliff pulled the rope, lifting me roughly three feet off the ground. Immediately, I began to choke, my windpipe being squeezed and the precious air unable to enter my lungs. As he anchored the rope down and I began to choke on bitter bile, Cliff eyed the other boys wildly.

     "Go get him, homies!" he yelled, pointing at me.

     Immediately, the boys ran towards my hanging, choking form, their mouths agape and their tongues licking wildly against both the front and back of my legs. As I began to lose all consciousness of everything about me (including the boys tasting my meat), Cliff unfastened the rope and lowered me to the ground, allowing me to suck in the sweet, delicious air.

     "What's the matter, bro?" Cliff asked me as I dropped to my knees. "Don't you know that a hanging body tastes sweeter when it struggles? I invited my little friends here to get a taste of some sweet honky-meat. Now...some of them made faces. I think it was because you weren't kicking them nice-looking legs of yours. So, when I pull you up again, I want to hear some gagging and see some honest-to-goodness twitchin' and kickin' of them meats...or else I'm a-gonna leave you here to die and then bite me a big, juicy chunk of ham. You dig me, bro?"

     Now, right away I knew from reading a book on human anatomy that another word for the thigh and kneeback was "ham". So, I figured that if I didn't want to die this day, I'd better start twitching and kicking my meats while his friends were getting their licks in.

     "Yeah...I dig, bro", I muttered as my lungs filled with air.

     He kicked the stool away as he helped me to my feet. Then, as I stood there, a wee bit wobbly, Cliff took out a meat brush and a bottle of barbecue sauce. He opened the bottle and began to brush the tangy sauce all over my naked legs.

     Lifting the rope, Cliff pulled me up off the ground once more. Immediately, the noose tightened about my neck and, once again, the precious air supply to my lungs was being cut off. As I hanged there, I began to gag as I gasped for air (or at least tried to keep the rope from closing up my epiglottis), my body began to jerk vigorously and my legs began to twitch spasmodically as the little niggers began to lick the tangy barbecue sauce...and the meat that it coated.

The meat that the little niggers licked and dug their teeth into!

     One of the little niggers got a bit too excited by all the action...and bit my right kneeback. When I tried to cry out in pain, my epiglottis collapsed...and the rope tightened about my neck even more. This time, there was no chance of either sucking in air or keeping my throat from closing up.

     I felt the blood in my head pounding in my ears, a sure sign that I was definitely dying.

     My eyes began to bulge as I looked down at Cliff, who held up a mirror to allow me the privilege of seeing my own face turning blue. As I opened my mouth, I saw in the reflection that my tongue had swollen and completely filled my mouth. I saw the whites of my eyes beginning to turn red as miniscule blood vessels burst. Then, my eyes began to cross as I became aware of my heart beating faster and faster...and then stop completely.

     I was still aware of my surroundings as the little nigger who bit into my kneeback climbed up to the limb of the tree where the rope was hanging over, scurried down the rope and, placing one foot on either side of my head, pounced up and down upon my shoulders...until my neck snapped. As I hanged there, dying, the last thing I felt was the rope biting deeper and deeper into my neck...and my head plopped grotesquely down until my chin touched my clavicle. Unaware that I was dead, the little motherfucker continued to jump up and down on my shoulders...until Cliff called him down.

     "He's dead, homey", Cliff replied, a little saddened to the fact. "The fun is over".

     The little nigger jumped down from my shoulders as the others glanced up at my dead body, hanging lifeless at the end of the rope. Then...Cliff smiled.

     "Now, let's eat!" he cried out, as the rest of his black legion lit a fire in the barbecue pit.

     I was taken down and, with the rope still about my neck and dressed in my clothes, placed face down upon the racks of the barbecue pit. The flames roared all about my dead, prone body. I remained upon the rack until my muscles had reached a temperature of 175 degrees...a sign that my body had been cooked to perfection.

     By the end of the night, all of Cliff's little nigger friends had filled their bellies and either fell asleep on blankets which they brought with them...or left to go home to sleep off their meal, leaving Cliff to dispose of the bones which were all that remained of my once vibrant and handsomely perfect body.

Ah, me! This 'twas but a dream...not reality!

THE TASTE OF INNOCENCE



     Now that I am the father of six children...three of them boys...I intend to teach them the full pleasures of showing off their legs and having other boys do to them what Mr. Michaels taught me and the other boys in my gym class at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. Why, already Ilya, Peter and Kaya know the pleasure of how it feels to lie on their stomachs. But, to tell you the truth, my wife tells me that they only do it to counteract the gas in their stomachs. That means it'll be up to me to show them how to properly wear shorts and knee socks as they get older in order to attract the attention of other boys to look at their kneebacks...and smack their lips in anticipation.

     Ilya, at almost nine, already knows the pleasure of biting another male's kneebacks...mine!

     How did this happen? It occurred when I was alone with Ilya in our house in Malibu. I was laying upon my stomach, propped up on my elbows, dressed in a tee shirt, mid-thigh tennis shorts and white knee socks, reading a copy of the next play I was going to appear in..."Dracula". Ilya came into the library, searching for me. When he saw me on the floor, he came running towards me at full speed (for a three-year-old). When he was a couple of feet from me, he tripped on the carpet. He had opened his mouth to let out a scream when, suddenly, his face came down upon my left kneeback. His baby teeth sank a little into my meat.

     I closed my eyes and looked up at the ceiling, silently sighing in absolute ecstasy. Not only had Ilya's teeth touched my kneeback...but saliva was dripping from his mouth as well. I suddenly reverted back to upstate New York when Jean-Paul Deschanel did the same to my right kneeback when we were playing dead.

     My heart started racing because it was my own son who was now tasting my kneeback. But, was he yet too young to fully understand the true pleasure of biting and licking another boy's kneeback? Would teaching him now be rushing him into a world which he may not be completely ready for?

     Hell, no!!!!!

     After all, my mother got me started wearing shorts and knee socks (and forcing me to display my kneebacks for all the other boys to see) at a young age...when I started going to school. I was five years old then. Ilya is only three. Why shouldn't he get a head start on biting and licking another male's kneebacks...even if those kneebacks are mine?

     I took Ilya aside after rising to my feet. I asked him how my kneeback felt in his mouth...and how he felt biting and drooling on it. At first, Ilya appeared ashamed and afraid to answer.

     "Don't be afraid", I told him. "Now you know what Daddy does with his friends. So...how did it feel? What did you think of my kneeback in your mouth?"

     "It tasted good, Daddy!" he exclaimed.

     I closed my eyes, looked up at the ceiling...and smiled once more.

     My son...my eldest son...actually said that my kneeback tasted good!

     Well, what else could he say? He's only three years old! The word "delicious" still isn't in his vocabulary! But, give him time. When he learns that the word "delicious" means to taste good, he'll probably say that my kneebacks taste delicious.

     I hope so...because I intend to teach his little friends the true pleasure of tasting my meat when I start throwing Ilya birthday parties every year and have them lick ice cream off my thighs, calves and kneebacks.

     Suddenly, an idea came to me. I rolled my knee socks down, exposing my well-built calves, and then threw myself back down onto my stomach on the carpet. Then, I turned and looked at Ilya.

     "You want to do some more?" I asked him.

     He nodded and quickly fell down and began to lick the back of my legs. As his tongue sloshed back and forth upon my tender, muscular meat, I looked up at the ceiling, closed my eyes again...and sighed deeply.

      MY SON WAS ACTUALLY ENJOYING THE TASTE OF MY LEGS!!!

     Ah...how his tongue felt upon my thighs...my calves...my kneebacks!

     It was almost too indescribable for words! But, at least Ilya was starting to learn the fine art of tasting a male leg...even if it was mine.

     When he had finished, I made Ilya promise that what we did in the library...and what we shall do in the future...will be our little secret. Jen must never find out. If she ever did, she'd break my neck.

     And if she did...I hope she'll have the decency to break my neck when I'm laying face down in shorts and knee socks!

MY STORY



     First of all, I think it's wise for me to introduce myself.

     My name, at present, is Sasha Kasdan...but I was born with the name Blaze Sasha Moscowitz. I know what some of you readers are going to say...

     How on God's green earth did I ever get a name like that? Right?

     Well, here's the whole story...my whole story.

     I was born in New York City on Saturday, May 8, 1971. I wasn't born in any hospital, although I left one with my mother after a stay of several days so my mother and I could be put through a battery of tests to make certain that both of us were in perfect health. You see, I was actually born in the back seat of a taxicab. How I got to be born in the back seat of a taxicab is a tale within itself. Earlier that evening, shortly after 6 p.m., my mother was bringing dinner to the table for herself...since her parents were out of town for the weekend, visiting friends in Dutchess County on the east side of the Hudson River. Where in Dutchess County I haven't the foggiest idea. All I was told by one of my mother's friends was that just as she was preparing to eat her dinner, her water broke.

     Now, what was my mother supposed to do? None of her friends owned a car...and her car was being used by her parents upstate. So, my mother had no other recourse than to call for a taxi. She walked down the front steps very slowly until she got to the door of the taxi, which was being held open by a beautiful young woman named Blaze McCarthy, who knew at once what my mother was going through. When my mother entered the back seat of the taxi, she saw several pictures of Ms McCarthy with her own children. So, as soon as she made certain that my mother was comfortably belted in, she got behind the wheel...and peeled out as if the devil himself was on her very heels!!!

     Halfway to the hospital, Ms. McCarthy attracted the attention of a motorcycle officer by the name of Romanow...Sasha Romanow. When Ms. McCarthy explained that she had a woman in the back seat who was in an advanced state of labor, Officer Romanow took a look and immediately ascertained that I was going to be born long before my mother even arrived at the hospital. So, Officer Romanow took off his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, washed his hands as best as he could with some alcohol that a nearby druggist brought out and began to instruct my mother on what to do to bring me into this world...with Ms. McCarthy helping my mother from inside. In other words...Officer Romanow was on the receiving end!

     By the time the taxi, led by Officer Romanow, made it to the hospital's emergency room, my mother was holding me in her arms. The neonatal nurse, who looked like a Bride of Frankenstein with a gauze mask over her nose and mouth, quickly snatched me from my mother's arms and brought me with all haste to the maternity ward, where my mouth was washed out with a jet of lukewarm water (to get the mucus and amnionic fluid out of my mouth and nose) and then gave me my first bath, washing all the fluid off my skin as well as out of my ears and eyes. After making certain that I was in 100% perfect health, the nurse returned me to my mother, wrapped in a blue towel...and dressed in my first diaper and gown, with a blue bonnet on my head and blue booties on my tiny feet.

     "What are you going to name your new son, Ms. Moscowitz?" the nurse asked.

     My mother's eyes immediately went to the young woman and the police officer standing by the door.

     "I'm going to name him in the order that I was helped", she replied. "His name is...Blaze Sasha Moscowitz. And I would be very proud if you two would be his godparents".

     "We would be honored", Officer Romanow replied.

     When my grandparents arrived at the hospital after their uneventful weekend jaunt up in Dutchess County, they wondered if my mother was ever going to tell me who my father was when I got to be old enough.

     "Never!" my mother exclaimed. "After the way his family treated me? Why should I tell them? As far as this baby and I'm concerned...those motherfuckers don't even exist!"

* * * * * * * * * *



     Now, let's jump ahead about five years. My mother and her parents, at this time, were starting to show their true colors. And, so was I...black and blue! I mean, if I so much as peed a little bit on the floor, my mother started spanking me across my bottom. And, if that weren't enough, my grandfather started taking his belt to my backside as well. And, my grandmother? Well, you can forget about her being the saint of the household. She almost broke my arms every time she grabbed me and brought me to my mother for a spanking...and enjoyed it!

     My mother would have gotten away with how she and her parents were treating me if it hadn't been for one of our neighbors noticing the bruises on my arms...and the welts on my bottom when she pulled my pants down.

     "Who gave those to you?" she asked me.

     At first, her being a stranger to me, I was afraid to answer her. Moreover, I was afraid to tell her who the culprits were who gave me the bruises.

     "You don't have to be afraid, Blaze", she said in a voice so soothing as to sound like an angel. "Who gave you those bruises?"

     "My mommy", I said. "And poppy and nanna, too".

     The neighbor just couldn't believe it. But, seeing what kind of a person my mother was, she believed it all too well. She sent me home and made me promise not to tell my mother and grandparents that she saw the damage...that it was going to be our little secret.

     A few days later, my mother received word that she was being transferred by her newspaper...to Schenectady. You see, my mother was the tops in her field for the newspaper. She was considered to be one of the best photographers that the newspaper (and its parent-company) ever had.

     Was I scared to move? You bet your sweet patutie I was! Moving to another town or city meant not only finding new friends...but trying to get another adult interested in what my mother and grandparents were doing to me.

MY SOCCER TEAM'S KNEEBACKS PARTY



     The following tale was related to me through a videotape which was found among the belongings of my dearly departed gym teacher and soccer coach, Mr. Michaels. Since my fruitful years with Mr. Michaels were before the time of DVDs and DVD recorders, the recording was done on a VHS videotape. Of course, though, growing up in the 70s and 80s, everybody and their Aunt Tillie had at least one video recorder-player in their house. That was the way it was in my father's house. But, before leaving to attend my four years of classes at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts and experiencing the groping hands and tongue of Mr. Michaels, I had gone to the neighborhood video store and, with some of my earnings as a model, purchased my own VCR, which I had lovingly packed away for the long journey from Florida to New York. I shall now relate to you what I consider to be the wonderfully delicious story behind Mr. Michaels's video.

     During my four years at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, I excelled in several sports. My favorite was the one that Mr. Michaels was the coach in...soccer. In soccer, a winning game was shared by every member. But a loss was the sole responsibility of the goalie...me. I, alone, knew of the disgrace which was felt by a goalie who dared to let an opposing team's winning kick get through. Many times, this disgrace meant that the goalie was to be ostracized severely...and in the Academy of Dramatic Arts, being ostracized was like suffering a living death. That is, until the next game and you managed to keep the opposing team from ever making a goal.

     During one season, we played Carle Place Boys' School...our rival for the state's top honors in varsity soccer...not once, not twice, not even three times. We played Carle Place a grand total of five times in one school year. Let me tell you this...Carle Place was one of the best teams ever to play soccer! To lose to them even once was pure hell! And, whoever was our goalie in a losing game really knew what it was like to have not only your teammates but the other students in the school talk behind your back. And the stares...they were like knives actually stabbing you in your back!

     Now, this one year we had the dubious honor (or should I say dishonor) of losing to Carle Place three times in a row...and the actual dishonor fell upon me because I was the goalie for all three games. When it came time for us to go up against Carle Place a fourth time, Mr. Michaels took me aside in the locker room after I laced up my shoes.

     "Blaze (that was my real name until I changed it legally), don't let us down today", he said, in a hushed voice. "I don't want to have to inflict bodily punishment upon you".

     Then, he was gone...and the other boys followed him out of the locker room and gymnasium and onto the soccer field.

     What did he mean by that? I wondered.

     Now, Mr. Michaels introduced me to many bodily actions from the time I first met him to the day of his untimely demise at the end of a rope with his meaty legs slashed and ripped and bloodied. Did he have a special type of punishment waiting for me alone should I lose the game a fourth time for my team? I shuddered just at the mere thought of it. Then, I followed the rest of me team out of the school and onto the playing field.

     The day was a little cool and I ran to my post as the breeze tasted my face and knees (the only exposed parts of my body). At the end of the first half, after forty-five vigorous minutes of play, our team was leading Carle Place by a score of 3-0.

     What was wrong with Carle Place? I thought to myself.

     Usually they played better than this...keeping us from trying to even score one goal. Were they toying with us...or what? After a fifteen minute rest, during which Mr. Michaels related his strategy for the second half of the game, we ran back onto the field. This time, I was stationed at the opposite net...the usual practice for the second half.

     As the game progressed, my team scored two more goals. We were now leading the best team on Long Island by a score of 5-0. After Carle Place's coach called for a time-out, we resumed the game.

     And, boy...did we learn a severe case of humility!!!

     Carle Place's coach called in a substitute player for one of their kickers...and this boy really played the game as if he were the devil himself. Every time the ball was kicked to him, he sized me up as he approached the net...and kicked the ball with such ferocity that it was difficult to so much as try to keep it from scoring. By halfway through the second half...twenty-three minutes...Carle Place scored five goals!

     The game was now tied 5-5!

     That meant that, for the remainder of the game, I had to keep Carle Place from even making one goal as my teammates tried their best to get a sixth goal and, thereby, winning the game. But, every time one of my teammates even got the ball to a spot from which they could easily score a goal, Carle Place's goalie blocked it. For the next twenty minutes, with two minutes remaining in the game, the ball went back and forth. Carle Place would try to make a goal and I caught the ball, denying them the honor. So did they do as my teammates tried to score a winning goal. These last two minutes now meant the difference between life and death...and whether I was to be punished or glorified.

     The cheers from the fans of both teams lowered to absolute muteness as my heart pounded in my ears. My blood throbbed inside my head as I watched Carle Place's devil-player run closer and closer to my position. He sized me up, looking me over from head to toe...then, with all his strength summoned into his very foot, kicked the ball. But, try as hard as I could, the ball sailed within an inch past my fingertips and into the net behind me as I flew to stop it, landing on my belly, my face smothered in the grass and my kneebacks facing the cloudless blue sky, the fans of the opposing team screaming out their cheers of victory as the whistle blew, signalling the end of the game.

     Carle Place won their fourth game in a row against us with a score of 6-5!

     As I rose to my feet and wiped grass and dirt from my knees, the opposing team lifted their champion upon their shoulders while my teammates glared at me, walking past me towards the gymnasium doors and the locker room within. Mr. Michaels approached me and, warmly, placed his arm around my neck, his free hand grasping my right wrist rather painfully as we walked together through the gymnasium doors and into the locker room. Mr. Michaels then shoved me over to the captain of the team.

     "Tie him face down on the bench and prop his knees", he replied, as he entered his office.

     The captain of the team signalled to his second to bind my hands together while he knelt and bound my ankles. When they were finished, the entire team carried me to the nearby bench where they placed me face down. The captain of the team and his second pulled and stretched my arms and legs, knotting the cords underneath the bench and taking the remaining strands and running them up and over my waist, knotting them once again.

     "Bring something to place under his knees!" the team's captain snapped as he finished busying himself with knotting the cords.

     One of the other boys came over to the bench with a stack of at least five bath towels which he had folded twice and forced under my knees, stretching my kneebacks until the very meat was tight. Then, when they had completed their work, the boys stood back, looking down at my naked kneebacks and admiring their work.

     "Losing one or two games for the team can be overlooked", Mr. Michaels replied, emerging from his office with a filled hypodermic needle in his hand. With the point facing skyward, he tapped the syringe, forcing bubbles towards the needle. He then ejaculated the bubbles out by pushing the plunger and squirting some of the fluid out.

     "Even three can be pardoned", he continued. "But, losing four games to our adversary is something that cannot be tolerated!"

     He bent over near my head and, quickly and deftly, plunged the needle into the nerve center in the back of my neck just below the base of my skull. Soon, blackness enveloped me as I lost consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.

     From here on, I can only relate what Mr. Michaels captured on his camcorder...

     The video started with a close-up of my unconscious face with a serene, almost pleasant, look on it. Looking closely, I could see that I was definitely smiling. Why? Because laying on my belly with my kneebacks facing towards the ceiling, dressed in my soccer shorts and knee socks, was a position that, after meeting Mr. Michaels, I totally relished.

     Then, Mr. Michaels slowly moved the camcorder down the length of my back, stopping when only my kneebacks filled the screen. Suddenly, something else came into the shot. As Mr. Michaels pulled the camera back, I could see that it was the team captain's tongue lovingly licking the smooth skin of my kneebacks.

     One by one, each of my teammates extended their tongues, licking and slobbering upon my tender kneebacks, each smiling as they did so. I must say, they certainly appeared to be enjoying the taste of my meat! And, who could blame them? My kneebacks, as well as my thighs and calves, have developed as I got older. And each time I laid face down upon my bed, glancing at the reflection of my kneebacks in a mirror, I could see that my kneebacks obtained their full, meaty adulthood early.

     As I watched the video, contentedly smiling, the camera appeared to have been jostled...yet still remained focused on my kneebacks. Soon, I found out why. Mr. Michaels handed the camera over to one of my teammates in order to partake in the pleasure of extoling his own brand of "punishment" upon my kneebacks. Looking at the camera and opening his mouth wide, Mr. Michaels placed his upper teeth upon the soft, tender meat of my kneebacks. Then, forcing his mouth down, he ran his teeth along my kneebacks, leaving red welts on the sweet meat. To finish his punishment, Mr. Michaels puckered his lips on the direct center of each kneeback and, as he inhaled deeply, produced two dark red hickies which, because of their proximity to certain blood vessels just below the skin, would remain visible on my kneebacks for days.

     As I continued to watch, I smacked my lips. Then suddenly, a smooth, white liquid pulsated onto my very kneebacks.

As the camcorder was pulled back, I could see that it was sweet cum that Mr. Michaels was vigorously ejaculating from his manly penis. He moved his penis back and forth, drenching my meat with his smooth, white cream. As the last of his cum petered out from his penis onto my kneebacks, Mr. Michaels exalted in the fine itch, giving a loud "Ahhhh" and smiling as he turned away from the camcorder, replaced his penis back inside his briefs and zipped up his coach shorts, stiffening his kneebacks.

     Then, the camcorder was jostled once again as it was moved in a tight close-up of my kneebacks. As I watched, Mr. Michaels's ejected cum glistened upon my meat, rolling down the sides and drenching the towels upon which my beautiful knees were placed. Then, the camcorder was pulled back to show the entire team standing behind the bench, smiling...and occasionally glancing down to gaze at my cum-soaked kneebacks. Then, the focus of the camcorder turned to show a close-up of Mr. Michaels announcing "The End" to the video.

     As I turned off my VCR, I chanced to glance at the time on the face of the machine. The tape lasted the full two hours in Standard Mode. I held the tape and looked at the face. There, in the dead Mr. Michaels's own handwriting was written the tape's title upon the label: BLAZE'S KNEEBACK PARTY.

     As I replaced the tape within the box, I smiled.